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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828301">Afterimage</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing'>formalizing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canonical Character Death, Dean Winchester Jr. Finds Out About Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Post-Series, Sam Winchester's Memory Box, Sibling Incest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:22:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828301</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Following his father's funeral, Dean Winchester Jr. is left with the task of clearing out his childhood home. This leads him to the discovery of an old, wooden trunk, the contents of which will reveal a long-kept secret.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>313</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Afterimage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They keep the service small and quiet, just like dad wanted.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It had been tough, having those talks with him after that first small stroke warned them the time was coming—funeral arrangements and estate preparations—but Dean’s glad, now, that they’d had them. Dad’s gentle smile took up near-constant residence on his face in those last couple years, the strength in his voice as he made all his final wishes known taking some of the fear and uncertainty out of it all. It helps make today a little easier.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>The table is only decorated with the few floral arrangements friends and family had sent clustered around the plain urn the funeral home provided. There’s nothing in it—he gave dad the hunter’s pyre he promised, thick plumes of smoke burning his eyes as he watched the flames until they burned down to mostly dust and embers—but the director said it might help provide ‘closure’ for others.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>Dean thinks that the wood-framed photo tucked in beside that empty urn is probably more comfort to anyone who actually knew his father. It’s from ages ago, before dad even met mom. He’s wearing one of those beat-up old hoodies he’s always loved, leaning up against the passenger door of uncle Dean's car, laughing at something off-camera. He looks happy.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>There’s only a short ceremony—nothing too heavy, just the funeral home’s standard bit about God’s mercy and endless love, His fair judgement promising that a good man’s journey will unfailingly lead him to Heaven.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>Dean can admit he’s not paying much attention to it, nervous hands twisting and crumpling the paper with his eulogy written on it. He doesn’t need it to be legible anyway—he knows it by heart.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>It’s while he’s casting his eyes aimlessly around the reception room, listening with half an ear to the director droning on about how ‘God has called Sam Winchester home to take up a seat near his throne’, that he sees the strange man at the doors.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>He looks young—Dean figures the guy must be close to his own age, maybe even a bit younger—and he’s not dressed for a funeral or in the uniforms that all the other non-office staff are wearing. His bright white jacket and blue jeans stand out like a sore thumb surrounded by a sea of somber black, but nobody else seems to have noticed him.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>At first, Dean thinks he must have gotten lost looking for another service. But he doesn’t act like he’s lost. He seems like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at dad’s picture on the table.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>Something about him seems familiar, even though Dean’s sure he’s never seen him before. It’s while he’s squinting across the room, trying to place his face, that the man looks his way.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Even from a distance, Dean can see there’s a kindness in his eyes, a small smile on his face. What should feel strange and intrusive on one of the worst days of his life is actually just… comforting, somehow.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The man raises one hand in an awkward, unmoving wave, and Dean can’t help but smile a little quizzically as he returns the gesture.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>They call his name, beckoning him to the podium to deliver the eulogy, and in the brief moment he looks away, distracted, the man’s already gone.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The reception afterwards is undoubtedly the worst part. Even with the minimal guest list, it seems to go on and on, shaking hands with friends and family he hasn’t seen in so long he’d almost forgotten about them as they offer empty platitudes.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>"He's with your mother now," one frail-looking woman says with a watery smile as she holds one of Dean’s hands between both of hers.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean just nods along because he's not sure there's a gentle way to say 'no, he's not'.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>His parents' relationship always struck him as more of a 'can't live alone' situation than a 'can't live without you' one. Which isn't to say he ever felt there was a lack of love in the house while he was growing up—his parents clearly cared for one another and he’d always known how much they both loved him. But even at their closest, there always seemed to be a distance between them; they were affectionate more than passionate.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>Maybe it was the larger-than-life presence of uncle Dean filling the room every time dad would get started telling stories about him, or maybe it was something to do with that second wedding ring mom always wore on a simple gold chain around her neck, the grave with another man’s name in her hometown where they’d scattered her ashes.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>Whatever the case, he can't imagine a Heaven where his mother's waited at the proverbial gates for his father this whole time, and he doesn't think dad would have expected or even wanted her to. They’d said ‘’til death do us part,’ and they meant it.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>He's not about to explain all that to mom's cousin Alicia in the middle of this funeral home, though. He just shakes her hand and thanks her for coming.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>By the time the reception’s over, flowers cleared and dust settled, Dean feels like he’s ready to collapse and it’s only 4 PM.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The house is eerily quiet without the beeping of dad’s vital signs monitor, this hiss of the oxygen tank. There’s only the sound of the hardwood floors creaking under his shoes as he stands for a moment in the space where his father’s deathbed had been.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He appreciates that the hospice team cleared out the equipment while he was away so he didn’t have to come home and see the empty bed again.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Skimming his hand along the mantle, he brushes his fingertips over the framed photos littering it. He’d done his best to make sure dad was surrounded by his favorites—that picture of Dean at the lake that he hates for his frizzy hair after being in the water all day, Dad and uncle Dean with their uncle Bobby, one of mom before she got sick.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Of all of them, dad’s favorite was probably the small one of him and uncle Dean when they were just kids. Dean must’ve listened to him tell the story of that photo at least a hundred times—how it was the 4th of July, 1996, and grandpa had to leave again not long after they took the photo, but uncle Dean went out and got them so many fireworks that they nearly burned a whole field down celebrating on their own.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean could probably recite the story word-for-word, he’s heard it so many times. But dad’s eyes lit up like he could still smell the gunpowder every time he told it, so Dean would’ve sat and listened a hundred times more.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad never did </span>
  <em>
    <span>fully</span>
  </em>
  <span> explain how the big one of Dad and uncle Dean with grandma and grandpa Winchester that’s hung over the mantle came to be.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean knows about the supernatural, of course—dad could only take so many years of questioning on what the tiny symbols carved into the wood of the window frames were, or why he laid fresh salt under the thresholds of the exterior doors each year, or what his tattoo meant before he had to tell Dean </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And once that door was cracked, Dean couldn’t help but try to wrench it open all the way with his incessant questioning.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad had always been careful about trying to hold the worst of it back, though. He’d go into gruesome detail on the difference between a wendigo and a rugaru if Dean asked, but questions that strayed too close to the heart of heaven and hell, or about things like how exactly grandma and grandpa Winchester could both be there for this photo, why they all looked nearly the same age, would have him clamming up.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He knows now that it was dad’s way of trying to keep some semblance of normalcy in his life—to keep him from the reality of just how many times the world had been on the brink, how terrifyingly delicate the fabric of time really was, just how many ways the seemingly solid ground you stood on could crumble beneath your feet.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Still, it used to drive Dean crazy, the way he’d evade questions on the gaps in his stories like that.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>In fact, the worst fights he and dad ever had were about hunting. Dad used to hate it when Dean would scan the news feeds for other counties or even other states looking for any hint of the supernatural, pointing out articles and patterns to ask if some suspicious death or strange news was just a coincidence or ‘their kind of thing’. In return, Dean used to call dad a hypocrite for treating him with kid gloves when he and uncle Dean were hunting long before his age.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Everything came to a head the summer between high school and college.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>All he’d wanted was one hunt—just the </span>
  <em>
    <span>chance</span>
  </em>
  <span> to feel like he was part of the ‘family business’ for even one day. He’d picked one out and everything. It was just a restless spirit causing trouble a couple hours’ drive away; it would have taken them a day, at most.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad shut him down without even considering it.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“You know what hunting gets you, Junior?” That’s what he’d call Dean when he couldn’t bring himself to use his brother’s name—Junior. “Nothing but stories with the scars to match, right up ‘til the day you die bloody with your boots on.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean had been so angry, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that he didn’t even think about it before he said:</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“It was good enough for uncle Dean, wasn’t it? If I drop dead, too, maybe you’ll finally love me half as much as him.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The pained shock on dad’s face, the way he recoiled like Dean had up and gut-punched him… even years later, it still haunts him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“You need to—” he started, pointing at the door with a trembling hand, and Dean felt sure in the moment that he’d finally broken dad’s seemingly infinite patience, that he was going to snap something like ‘get out and not come back’.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But dad just stopped short and closed his eyes, shaking his head and pressing his lips together in a firm line to keep whatever he’d been about to say back. He took a deep breath and nodded to himself before he spoke again.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I can’t be here, I can’t—not right now. I need to go. We’re going to talk about this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>believe me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but not when I’m...I’ll be back,” he said, grabbing his coat and his keys. “You sit your ass right here and do not move it until I get back.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Are you fucking kidding me? You can’t just order me around like I’m still ten years old, dad! I’m an </span>
  <em>
    <span>adult</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad turned back with his hand still on the door, the small curve of a smile that had nothing to do with amusement on his mouth.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“That so?” He looked Dean up and down with an almost dismissive look in his wet eyes. “Well, you could’ve fooled me, Junior. ‘Cause you sure as hell ain’t acting like one.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He didn’t even slam the door behind him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean remembers waiting for all of an hour—fuming and pacing and playing over a dozen different one-sided arguments with his father in his head, working himself up into an even worse state. Just another part of dad’s life that only uncle Dean could touch, just another way he could never live up to his name.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>By the time he noticed the glint of that second, barely-used set of car keys hanging on their hook by the back door, he was so furious that he didn’t even hesitate.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>If dad didn’t think he could do it, well, Dean would just have to show him otherwise, he figured. A quick drive and your basic salt and burn—how hard could it be?</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>By the time he realized what a grave mistake he’d made, he was essentially headed into a grave of his own.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He can still remember the ice cold feeling of absolute terror rushing down his spine when the graveyard caretaker’s eyes blinked black, the doors of the mausoleum he’d followed him into slamming shut. A demon. If he’d thought to check the weather patterns, he might have noticed the omens, but no. Instead, he’d rushed headlong into a </span>
  <em>
    <span>demon hunt</span>
  </em>
  <span> with nothing but some salt, a lighter, and the stupid, misguided notion of helping some poor spirit find peace.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Pinned to the crypt wall by his throat, praying to every god he could think of and maybe even the devil himself for another chance, the only thing he could think was that </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> were going to be his last words to his father.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“No…” Dean thought that should have been his line, but it was the caretaker gasping it, not him. His eyes went wide, and even black as they were, Dean thought he could see fear in them. “Wait, please, I didn’t know! I—”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>One moment Dean was sure he was dead, and the next he was dropped to the ground as the caretaker’s grip went slack, hands falling to his side like a puppet with its strings cut as his head snapped back and black smoke poured from his wailing mouth.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>When the awful, inhuman screams subsided, the caretaker’s eyes closed, head dropping forward. After a moment, he took a deep breath, head tilting slowly from side-to-side as he shrugged his shoulders to crack his neck with a contented sound. When he opened his eyes again, they were a deep, bloodied red.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“My my,” he said in a voice that sounded completely different—a lot more feminine, wholly amused, and… Scottish?</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The caretaker blinked in surprise, looked down at himself with a disgusted curl of his lips. With a snap of his fingers, his whole body seemed to almost… melt into the shape of a slim, redheaded woman in a scarlet dress, a golden belt in the shape of a snake wrapped around her waist.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“It would seem our little Winchester apple hasn’t fallen far from the family tree.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Her angular features and the sharp lines of her makeup gave her a severe look, even once the unholy red glow of her eyes faded to a more human-looking green. Dean still felt like he was about thirty seconds from pissing himself.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“H-how do you know my—?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Oh, y’wee dove,” she said, perfectly patronizing with an almost sympathetic tilt of her head. “Stumbling in half-cocked with naught but good intentions and a death wish? A duller mind than mine could tell you’re Winchester through and through.”<br/><br/></span>
  <span>Dean was too stunned to do more than blink, wide-eyed and petrified as she reached out to grip his chin between two red-tipped fingers and her thumb, turned it left and then right as he stared at her, dumbstruck.<br/><br/></span>
  <span>“Y’don’t look much like your namesake, but you’ve certainly got your father’s mane of hair, haven’t you?” She looked like she was about to say more before she stopped and turned to look at the entrance to the mausoleum. Distantly, Dean could hear a car door slam and dad’s frantic voice shouting his name. She looked back at him with a wink as she said, “Speak of the devil.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She strolled away with a hum, waving her hand at the previously locked mausoleum doors to fling them wide open as dad approached at top speed. Dean had barely managed to scramble to his feet before dad burst into the room, gun drawn.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Dean!” He ran right to him and laid a bracing hand on Dean’s shoulder, scanning his face with worried eyes. He looked nearly as scared as Dean felt. “Oh, thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Are you okay, are you hurt?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean shook his head, pointed a shaky hand behind them, towards where the woman stood, still unnoticed, just out of dad’s line of sight.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“She… she…”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>She</span>
  </em>
  <span> single-handedly saved the Winchester family line.” Dad’s head whipped around so fast it was a wonder he didn’t snap his own neck. “Again.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Rowena?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Hello…” she paused for a moment, grin faltering as she blinked a couple times in quick succession before she continued, “Samuel.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Why are you—?” Dad turned back to him with a look of confusion, lowering his weapon even though Dean still wasn’t so sure that was a good idea with this woman. “How did you manage to—?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean lifted his hands helplessly in front of himself with a little shrug, face twisted in an expression that said ‘your guess is as good as mine.’</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>There</span>
  </em>
  <span> it is!” she proclaimed with a quick, sharp laugh. “Our dearly departed Dean—I see the resemblance now.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad rolled his eyes, tucking his gun away entirely.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“He’s usually a lot smarter than this.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Be a mite bit difficult to be any </span>
  <em>
    <span>dumber</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Hey!” Dean said, recovered just enough to be offended.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>They both gave him a look that said </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘really?’</span>
  </em>
  <span> He rubbed sheepishly at the back of his head, right where the demon had tried to put it straight through the concrete, and wisely refrained from any further objection.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“It really has been too long,” she said as she strode forward to stand before dad with her arms crossed, faux-petulant. “You never call, you never write.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I tried, once,” dad said with a sad smile.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Aye, that you did,” she’d said, bringing her hands up to hold each side of his face for a moment. “But you know he’d never’ve forgiven either of us.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad huffed out a breath through his nose with a quick raise of his eyebrows that seemed to say ‘you’re not wrong’. She patted his cheek, then tilted her head a bit as she scanned his face more closely, eyes narrowing.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Darling... you’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>aged.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Uh, yeah,” dad laughed. “I’m pushin’ 60, so I’d hope so.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Are you really?” She cringed as she let his face go, shuddering a bit like the very thought made her skin crawl. “How dreadful. There are spells for that, you know. You’re no </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I’ve always thought you were at least a touch more competent than most—you could probably manage one without much incident.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Laughing, dad said, “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but really, I’m okay with it.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She huffed, lips pursed as she gave him a considering look. “Suppose you would be, wouldn’t you?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“What can I say? No one lives forever.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“From your lips to our young God’s ears, hmm?” Dad shrugs with a small smile, and she shakes her head with a sigh. “Alas, some of us have more important things to do than sit around sprouting white hair and wrinkles. Now that I’ve returned to you your wayward son, I’m afraid I must take my leave. Musn’t let the throne sit empty for long—you understand. And besides, I’m quite eager to have a chat with the not-so-loyal subject of mine I sent home just now.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>chat</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” dad said dubiously.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She brought one hand up near her face, pretending to examine her long nails.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Mm. The iron fist only rules if you let them </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel it</span>
  </em>
  <span> every now and again.” She clenched her hand into a tight fist with a positively sinister grin. “Seems a mere century or two’s enough to make some of them forget that orders from the Crown are entirely non-negotiable.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad’s rueful wince promised that what Rowena called a ‘chat’ was not going to be pleasant.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Mind you, much as it pains me to admit it—and you know it pains me </span>
  <em>
    <span>terribly</span>
  </em>
  <span>—my power does have its... limits,” she sounded so displeased at even saying the words aloud, Dean took an unconscious step to put himself further behind his father. “There are nasties in the night beyond even my reach. And as we’ve established, you won’t be around forever to save the day, either. Then who’ll be left to come to the little sprog’s rescue?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad’s expression was inscrutable, quiet for a long moment before he nodded with a hard swallow.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Yeah, I… I know.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Would you listen to me? Offering parenting advice,” she laughed as she brushed a strand of hair free of her face. “Dear Fergus would be having a right laugh if he could hear me now.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Thanks, Rowena. Can’t say I’d want a repeat of the circumstances,” dad said with a hard squeeze to Dean’s shoulder where his hand was still resting. “but… it was good to see you.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Not to worry,” she said, settling down onto the stone bench in the centre of the room and crossing her long legs delicately in front of her, looking every bit the queen on her throne. “I’ve no doubt you’ll see his face again long before mine.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>While she and dad shared a smile, Dean took a deep breath to get the courage up to say, “Thank you for helping—saving me, Miss Rowena… ma’am.” Dad looked over at him with amusement. At least until he’d tried to continue with, “I owe you m—”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” dad had finished for him, hand clapped quickly over Dean’s mouth as he squinted up at him in confusion. “You owe her nothing.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Don’t be such an oversized stick in the mud, Samuel,” she said with a mischievous smirk. “Bit of a family tradition, isn’t it?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Goodbye</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Rowena.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Goodbye, boys,” she’d said with a wink in Dean’s direction.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Another snap of her fingers and she was gone.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>After it was silent long enough that he could be pretty sure she wasn’t going to pop back into existence, Dean muttered, “She scares me.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“She should,” dad responded with a smirk as he put his hand on Dean’s back and nudged him towards the doors. “C’mon, let’s go.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>They walked in silence most of the way across the grounds, until they got to where dad’s car was parked right beside uncle Dean’s. Dad checked out his head, cleaned up the small cut at the back of it and told him he’d probably have a wicked headache and they’d have to keep an eye out for signs of concussion, but it didn’t look too serious.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It was as he was packing the first aid kit back up that Dean finally said, “Dad? I’m… I’m really sorry.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Something in the way dad looked at him—that mix of fatherly disappointment and patient understanding—sent everything he’d been wishing for a second chance to say as that demon was choking him tumbling out of him all at once.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I’m sorry for what I said… I shouldn’t’ve—I never should’ve brought uncle Dean into it, or-or said what I said just because I was mad. And I’m sorry for this. All of this. Coming here when you told me not to, being so </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was going to kill me—I could feel it, dad. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. If she hadn’t...”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He swallowed against the bile trying to rise in his throat, tears burning at his eyes as the reality of how close to death he’d actually come settled over him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad pulled him into his chest, one arm tight around his back and his chin resting on Dean’s head as Dean couldn’t hold back the sobs anymore. He didn’t tell him it was okay, because it wasn’t—nothing about what Dean had done that night was remotely okay. Dad just held him and let Dean shake apart with the overwhelming flood of delayed emotion.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I just wanted you to see that I could do it, too, y’know?” he mumbled into the fabric of dad’s shirt, embarrassingly wet with tears. “But… all I did was prove that I can’t. M’nothing like uncle Dean.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Of all the reactions he could’ve imagined, he certainly hadn’t been expecting dad to </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He pulled back from dad’s arms, betrayal in his eyes as he looked up at him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I’m not laughing at you, kid—promise,” dad said, patting his arm reassuringly. “It’s just… did I ever tell you about your uncle’s first solo hunt?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean shook his head ‘no’, wiping roughly at his eyes and sniffling his nose to try and erase the evidence of just how hard he’d been crying. Dad took a seat on the hood of uncle Dean’s car, tapped one hand beside him so Dean would follow.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“His first wasn’t perfect either, let me tell you. Pretty far from it.” Dean’s skepticism must have shown on his face, because dad continued, “Well, I mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t sneak out and steal the car to get there, so you got him beat on that one...”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean suddenly became very interested in the scuffs on his shoes to avoid the side-eye dad was giving him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“But he was 18, same as you, and he thought he was invincible. I guess most kids do, at that age. That was always your uncle, though; ten foot tall and bulletproof, like nothing could touch him, even when he was scared. Maybe especially then.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>A fond smile quirked one side of his mouth.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Dad gave him a poltergeist, what should have been a pretty simple hunt, but he wanted so badly to make your grandpa proud. He got overconfident and sloppy, and even when he managed to kill it, the thing still sent him flying through a second story window.” Eyes cast skyward, dad seemed to lose himself in thought for a time. “He could have died that night—probably should’ve, with a fall like that. Instead he wound up at the hospital, covered in cuts and bruises, a broken arm and a concussion on top of his wounded pride.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It was far from the first story dad ever told him about uncle Dean making mistakes; he’s heard dozens of them over the years. Uncle Dean breaking some ancient thing he should have known better than to touch, hitting on a girl that turned out to be the creature they were hunting, insulting the Sheriff and getting himself thrown in a holding cell when dad needed him most, eating something he absolutely should not have—it’s almost a bit distressing how often that last one comes up. But it’s the first one that makes uncle Dean sound just a little bit like </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that makes Dean feel for the first time that maybe the name </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> too heavy for him to carry.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Was grandpa at least proud of him?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>After a long pause, dad finally answered, “Your grandpa was always proud of him—of… of both of us—even if he didn’t say it. And he definitely didn’t say it then. God, he tore a strip off him when he finally got Dean out of that hospital. Didn’t let him go solo again until after—well. It was at least a few years. But, y’know… I think he was just scared. Sometimes he forgot your uncle wasn’t as bulletproof as he pretended to be, that he was still just a kid, too. And no father wants to think that they can’t protect their kids.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean traced shapes on the hood with the fingertips of one hand, thinking that answer over.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Sooo… does that mean you’re gonna tear a strip off me, too?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I could,” dad said, with a nod. “You’d deserve it more than your uncle did. Could tell you that what you did wasn’t just selfish, and irresponsible, and unbelievably </span>
  <em>
    <span>dangerous</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it was also a complete violation of my trust in you.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean looked shame-faced down at his lap.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“…but with what happened in there, I’d say you’ve seen enough of the consequences of your actions—for tonight, anyway. Plus, that?” Dad pointed with a sweeping motion at the vivid bruising already coming up on Dean’s neck where the demon had taken hold of him. “You think it hurts now, but it’s gonna hurt a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot</span>
  </em>
  <span> worse tomorrow. Trust me.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Raising a hand to his throat, Dean winced at the thought.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“So let’s just get you home and we’ll hash out the rest tomorrow, all right?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean nodded and stood with a glum look on his face, started to move away before dad reached out and grabbed his sleeve to stop him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“But Dean… what you said, back at the house?” Dad put one hand on each of his shoulders and ducked his head a bit to look into Dean’s eyes. “If I ever made you think that I don’t love you—</span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just as you are—then I’m so sorry. When I gave you your uncle’s name, it wasn’t so you could… live up to it, somehow. It’s because he’s the reason I’m still living every day, and you? You’re the reason those days are worth living.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean nodded and blinked back the grateful tears trying to make their way into his eyes again as dad squeezed his shoulders before letting him go to make his way over to the driver’s side of uncle Dean’s car.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He felt better… at least he did for all of a second, until he reached into his pocket for the keys only to find it empty.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Panic welling up in his chest, he frantically patted at his other pocket, and his back pockets, too. All empty.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Looking for these?” Dad said, dangling the missing keys from one finger with a smirk. Dean stared incredulously. “Not gonna happen, Junior. You’ll be drivin’ the dadmobile home.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He tossed Dean his other set of keys, and Dean fumbled a bit as he caught them.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Aw, c’mon. I drove her here just fine!”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“You drove her here just fine </span>
  <em>
    <span>without asking</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean sighed with a poorly-hidden roll of his eyes, but knew better than to argue as he headed to dad’s SUV instead.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“And I’ll tell you another thing,” dad called, grinning down at the shiny finish of the hood as he ran his hand over it. “If I find you got so much as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>scratch</span>
  </em>
  <span> on her? You won’t be holding these keys again until you pry them from my cold, dead hands.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Chuckling to himself at the memory, Dean pats the pocket of his coat where the Impala’s keys jingle up against his own. Dad hadn’t kept his morbid promise, in the end—he’d handed the keys over to Dean a few years ago, when his joints got too sore to even hold the wheel anymore. She still spent most of her time in the garage, but Dean drove dad around in that passenger seat as much as he could before he even the short trips became too tiring.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>For how terrifying that night had been at the time—and still is to this day, because being saved from the brink of death by a woman he’d later learn was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Queen of Hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> is always going to be at least top 3 on that list—it wound up being the best thing that ever happened to their relationship. Dean felt like he could finally breathe, freed from the self-imposed burden of trying to carry his uncle’s name, and dad stopped trying so hard to shield him from the world or brush aside his interest in hunting.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It was two weeks after that when dad told him to pack a bag and loaded them up in the SUV—‘better mileage’, he’d said, casting an apologetic look at the closed garage door where Baby stayed behind—with an old cooler full of sandwiches and coordinates for Lebanon, Kansas loaded on the GPS.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>That first look at the Men of Letters bunker had really been something else. Wandering awestruck through room after room, thinking with each new one that it couldn’t possibly get any weirder, but then he’d push open another door, and somehow it did.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>A secret, underground labyrinth with an infirmary and a library and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>war room</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He remembers wondering just how many secrets his father actually had.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad seemed content to let him explore on his own, occasionally laughing from his seat at one of the library tables when Dean would rush back in to shout something like ‘A </span>
  <em>
    <span>dungeon</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Who even </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?’</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>After what must have been over an hour just trying to get himself familiar with the place, back and forth down the hallways, Dean almost felt like he could get around without getting himself lost. Dad wasn’t in the library when he made his way back there, but it didn’t take long to find him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Room 11—the one Dean correctly assumed had been his uncle’s, guns on its walls and a years-old (hopefully empty) pizza box still balanced on one of the chairs.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“You had the keys to </span>
  <em>
    <span>this place</span>
  </em>
  <span> my whole life and you still made me live in our lame house? So not cool, dad.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad looked up from where he’d been staring at an old grey bathrobe between his hands, a frown on his face.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Hey! What’s wrong with our house?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Nothing, I guess. But if you have the choice between some boring cedar shake out in the boonies and the actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>Batcave</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he held one hand up to represent each before lifting the ‘Batcave’ hand way higher than the other. “You always choose the Batcave.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Y’know, I think I’ve heard something like that before,” Dad laughed as he led him out of the room, hanging the robe up on a hook near the door as he went. “C’mon, then, Master Wayne. Let’s go unload the car and I’ll make us some dinner.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>They spent two full weeks there, that summer. Dad took uncle Dean’s room, so Dean set up camp in what had once been dad’s. It seemed dad had a story about nearly every room in the place, probably a hundred more he didn’t tell as they went through the bunker. They brushed away 20 years of accumulated dust on artifacts, and weaponry, and of course, the stacks and stacks of books, as Dean learned about the Men of Letters, legacies, and what it meant to be one.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>By the time they pulled away from the bunker—headed home just in time for Dean to pack up again for college—Dean already knew that he’d be back. Even if he never hunted the way his dad, uncle, and grandpa had, he was determined that this part of his family’s history wasn’t going to end with him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>So they came back the very next summer. And the one after that. The trip became their annual tradition—every summer up until dad really started showing his age, they would find time to make that trek back to the bunker.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Now, he’ll be going it alone.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean shakes himself out of his reverie and looks over at the windows, the dying light coming through them.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>If he wants to keep to on-schedule for that trip, he’d better get a move on.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He spends a couple hours working on packing up the few places in the house besides the den that still look lived-in—the minimal cookware still left in the kitchen, the downstairs bath, little forgotten spots like the linen and utility closets. He lets himself get lost in the work, mindless and repetitive.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Much as he’d hated it at the time, dad’s insistence that not only should Dean sell the house after he passed, but he should start clearing it out even before the end, makes sense to him, now.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>They’d already emptied most of the rooms upstairs by the time dad fell too ill to leave his bed—all the big spots like dad’s bedroom and his office. He’d been able to sort through dad’s clothes with him in his room—poking fun at his old man sweaters and his ‘plaid for every occasion’ wardrobe, the couple of dusty, ill-fitting fed suits he still had stashed at the back of the closet. They’d gone through all the important papers in his office, his books and journals, spending hours together laughing over the old photos.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean’s not sure he’d be able to do it all alone, now. What could have been a painful, lonely ordeal is instead a pleasant if still bittersweet memory with his father.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad experienced enough loss that he knew how to make it just a little easier for Dean, when the time came.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Once he’s got a handful of boxes taped up and labelled, he stacks the ones for donation by the front door for when the collection service comes for them in a couple days, then he hauls the other two out to the garage.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>There’s a pile of maybe six boxes worth of stuff that’s coming with him to Lebanon, another two or three that he’s having shipped home to California ahead of him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>By far the most important thing Dean’ll be taking from this garage is the Impala.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He and dad both agreed it didn’t make sense for him to keep her—he has one parking spot in the underground of his condo building, and she’d be stolen from it in an instant. Plus, even with how careful dad was about keeping her maintained—clockwork oil changes, even when she probably didn’t need it, regular parts replacements and service work—the car’s from </span>
  <em>
    <span>1967</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Whatever parts are still original are 90 years old now. But there’s a space in the bunker’s garage reserved just for her, and after being on the road for nearly a century, she’s more than earned her own retirement.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“What d’you think, Baby,” he murmurs, laying a hand on the hood with a wry smile. “Ready for one last ride?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It’s as he’s chuckling at himself—talking to the car like she might actually answer him… sometimes his uncle’s name really fits—that he notices there’s something in the backseat. He squints to see through the glare of the fluorescent overhead light on the windows as he goes around to unlock the door, climbs in the back with a loud creak of the hinges.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The scuffed, scratched wood of the small trunk is dark enough that it almost blends in with the leather, and it looks old, if not quite as old as the car it’s sitting in. He glances suspiciously around him as he drags it closer for a better look, like whoever left it here might still be in this garage somewhere, hidden just out of view.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He’s been in and out of this garage—even in and out of this car—almost every day for the last few weeks; he knows this box wasn’t here before. He can’t think of anyone who would have had access not only to the garage but to the car itself when her keys never left his pocket. It’s like it just… popped up in the backseat out of nowhere.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Leaving questions on how it got there for another day with a shake of his head—one mystery at a time—he cautiously opens the lid.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Everything at the top of the box is somehow related to him. There’s the laminated programs from his high school and college graduations, a father’s day card that was clearly handmade in grade school with a crudely-drawn picture of their family tree on the front, a toddler-sized pair of denim overalls that mom had embroidered Dean’s name onto in yellow.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Miracle’s collar with its engraved tag is there, too, wrapped around his favorite, chewed-up ball. Dean was quite young when Miracle passed away—maybe all of 6 or 7—but he can still remember his parents telling him to say goodbye before dad took him to the vet that last time. Miracle hadn’t been able to stand, tired and sick as he was, but he’d still wagged his tail when Dean scratched behind his ears.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Losing that dog was the first time Dean ever saw his father cry.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Things get less familiar the further he digs into the trunk, but there’s a few he’s pretty sure he can place. The clearly well-used Colt with its pearl grips must have been his uncle’s, and he can only imagine the Vietnam service medal and vintage signed baseball would have belonged to grandpa Winchester. There’s a set of wedding rings in a small black box which he assumes were grandma and grandpa’s, too.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Everything else he either can’t identify or has no idea the significance of—a deck of playing cards and one green plastic army man figurine, an old silver Zippo that could belong to anyone in a family full of hunters. A blood-stained, blue handkerchief that he handles very gingerly. The little bronze amulet on its leather cord seems vaguely familiar, but Dean’s not sure from where.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>By far the most bizarre item is a brochure for a retirement home that looks like it was printed long before dad was old enough to even consider assisted living.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He’s just about to start packing things back into the trunk when he notices some papers tucked away against the side, almost hidden by the other items.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>They look like letters, each one folded in thirds and stacked together, three in all.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The first one he unfolds is written on hotel stationery, deep-set wrinkles on the page implying that it had been crumpled up into a ball before being smoothed back out again. Almost the entire top third of the page is covered in angry-looking slashes of black ink, crossing out abandoned sentences, pen pressed so hard to the paper that there’s spots where it cut right through.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The actual content of the letter is pretty short, after the false starts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I’ve always thought there was some value to therapy. I still do. But this? Writing you a letter you’ll never read?</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>‘Dear Dean: I hunted every day for months hoping for an express ticket back to you, but no luck yet. Isn’t that just the Winchester way? Everything wants to kill you right up until you’re ready to let it.’</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I know that’s not what he meant, but that’s what it feels like.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>He says to think of it like healing from an injury—it takes time and patience, and even after all that, it’ll still scar. I tried telling him we’ve had pretty good success with the ‘rub some dirt on it’ method, but he just wrote a note in his book. Not much of a sense of humor.<br/><br/></span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>It’s been a year and I still wake up every day wanting to go home.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s stomach twists in sympathy. Dad had taken him to speak with a grief counselor, after mom. She’d suggested something similar to this—writing a letter thanking mom for her love and support, to say everything he hadn’t said to her when he had the chance because he was too angry at the world for taking her from him, angry with her for letting it.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It feels a bit like he’s peeking in at an intensely private conversation, reading dad’s words from years ago, and Dean briefly contemplates not reading the others. His curiosity gets the better of him, though, and he’s unfolding the next one before he knows it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>My therapist suggested I should try the letter again, now that we’ve got 6 months of work in.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>6 months. Hard to believe I’ve been here that long. Just a hunt that turned into a short-term job offer, now suddenly I’ve got a 9-5 with benefits and a 401(k), trading off who buys donuts on Fridays.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I wish you could try the donuts from this one place here—they’ve got one called the ‘Pig Candy’ donut. It’s disgusting. Exactly your kind of thing.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I even had to upgrade from a crappy motel to an equally crappy apartment. Remember that shithole in Little Rock when you were 16? With the broken bathroom door handle and that awful clown wallpaper border in my room? It’s like that place, only worse. But it’s cheap and furnished, and my landlady sometimes brings me casseroles. I think she thinks I don’t eat enough home-cooked meals. She’s not wrong. You were always the better cook.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>It still doesn’t really feel like home, but I don’t think anywhere ever will. ‘Home’ has always meant you, to me.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I met someone here, too. She’s not a hunter, but she knows some of what’s out there. Her husband was killed by vamps a few years back, too. One of the nest I first came here to wipe out, I think.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>It’s still new, but I feel comfortable around her; we have a lot in common. Both staring down a future without the one who promised to spend it with us. Might be a little easier with back-up.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I guess for now it’s just nice to have someone to hold at night again. Even if I’ll always wish it could still be you, hogging the blankets and bitching about my cold feet.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean reads the last sentence again. And a few more times after that. Then he re-reads the whole letter.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The words don’t change, no matter how many times he looks at them.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>His mind’s running double-time—replaying every old uncle Dean story, every discussion they’d ever had about love and loss, dad’s wistful smile when he’d look at photos of him and his brother.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It all starts ticking into place; a lock he’s had for years and just finally found the key for.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll always wish it could still be you…</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Dean whispers to the silent interior of the car.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The more he thinks about it, trying to prove himself wrong, the more sense it makes.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad didn’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> his brother; he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>in love</span>
  </em>
  <span> with his brother.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Hastily packing the trunk back up with shaking hands, he stuffs those letters in on top, the last one still unread. He closes up the car and turns the lights off in the garage without a backward glance, heading inside to pour himself a very tall drink (and then another) from the mostly-empty liquor cabinet in the den before falling into a restless sleep on that uncomfortable couch.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He tries not to let his thoughts stray to it too much over the next few days. He finishes packing up and cleaning, handles the remaining paperwork to get the house listed, settling the last few affairs he has in his hometown. He works himself to exhaustion each day just so he’s too tired to think about it.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Soon enough, though, he’s locking the doors of his empty childhood home one last time, slipping the keys into the lockbox for the realtor. Then it’s just him in the car, loaded up and headed for Lebanon, that box still sitting untouched in the backseat, mocking him in the rearview mirror the entire way.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It’s the very last thing he unloads, frowning down at the lid of it. He feels like it belongs in dad’s room since it seems to hold all of his most sentimental items, but Dean’s sort of gotten used to that being </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> room, now, over the years.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>His feet take him to room 11, instead.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Setting the trunk down on the bed—messy and half-made, the way dad always left it, for some reason—he takes a look around, remembering the last time he’d been in here.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad had been so stubbornly insistent he wasn’t going to make it back again, after that trip. Dean hadn’t believed him, at first. But watching him pack the last of his clothing into his bag, back hunched as he sat on the edge of the bed, looking every bit his age, Dean knew dad was probably right.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“How many years’ve we been coming here now, Junior?” he asked, struggling to pull the zipper closed on his duffel with trembling fingers.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Fifteen, this year,” Dean said, reaching over to help. He tugged the zipper the rest of the way closed and dad smiled his thanks.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Fifteen. That’s a pretty good run. Nearly double what your uncle and I got in this place. What was it, nine years he and I spent here? Ten?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Seven, I think,” Dean said, a bit distractedly as he plucked dad’s forgotten glasses from the nightstand and handed them to him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Huh,” Dad muttered, frowning down at his glasses as he gave them a quick clean with the hem of his shirt before putting them on. “That all? Could’ve sworn it was longer than that.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Pretty sure, dad,” Dean said. “Henry gave you the key in ‘13, and uncle Dean died in 2020. So, seven.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad was quiet for a long moment, looking down at the pillow on the bed beside him, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. He always got that way when Dean had to remind him of something he’d long forgotten, when he got his years or stories or names confused. The damage to his brain from the stroke had thankfully been relatively minimal, but between that and his age—things tended to slip, sometimes.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Y’know, our whole lives together—from the fire to that barn—we got 37 years. 37. Sounds like a lifetime, doesn’t it? But…”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dad glanced around the room, almost entirely unchanged since the day uncle Dean left it the last time. Clothes still scattered around, papers still strewn over the desk—like he might walk in at any moment and pick right back up where he’d left off.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“But I’ve spent almost that long with only my memories of him, now. I can’t remember what he was wearing that day, or what his aftershave used to smell like on this pillow, or… or even the sound of his voice. Almost a lifetime gone, and it still—” his voice went a little choked, near the end, and he stopped short with a shake of his head, eyes clenched shut and lips pressed tight together.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean reached out and squeezed his shoulder. After a moment, dad placed a hand over his, too.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“You got the bags ready?” Dean nodded the affirmative, hefting the last one up onto his shoulder, and dad patted his hand as he let it go. He cleared his throat before he continued. “Guess it’s about time to start heading towards home, then.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Home’ has always meant you, to me.<br/><br/></span>
  </em>
  <span>In hindsight, it seems like it should have been so </span>
  <em>
    <span>obvious</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Dean stares uneasily down at the box. He’d intended to leave that last letter unread, not sure if he could handle any more surprises in what it might say, but now that he’s here…</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He flips the lid open on the box with a nervous swallow, picks up the final and longest letter of the pile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>It still doesn’t feel real. Even after seeing him on that screen, his little fingers and toes, the outline of his face.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I’m going to be a father—I’m going to have a son.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>Maybe it’s crazy, but I didn’t even think of kids as a possibility anymore. I really didn’t. That part of my idea of ‘normal’ died with Jessica. </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>Now look at me. Nearly 40 with a baby on the way.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>We’ve started looking at houses. There’s one a little ways outside of town that looks promising. Needs some work, but it’s got good bones—that’s what the realtor says, anyway. Good bones. All I know is that it’s got plenty of room, a garage for the Impala, and a big backyard for Miracle and Dean, when he’s old enough.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>That’s what we’re thinking of naming him—Dean. I probably shouldn’t, but I’ve already started calling him that in my head. Dean Winchester… would it be Jr? Dean Winchester II? I’m honestly not sure.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I want to do so much better for him than what we got, Dean. Give him the kind of life I wish you’d had, the kind you tried your best to give me. Bedtime stories and trips to the park, presents at Christmas, someone to help him with his homework and tell him how smart he is, to never let him think he’s not good enough. He deserves it. You did, too.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I finally get it. What these letters were supposed to do, what I wouldn’t let them do. They’re a way to let you go. Not completely. I don’t think I could ever…</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>But if I want to make room in my heart for him, I can’t keep living in the part of it that will always belong to you.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>I don’t think I’ve been this scared since you said goodbye. Scared that I’m not as strong as you thought I was, that I don’t know how, that I’m going to screw this up.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>If nothing else, I’m going to make sure he knows I love him—from his first breath to my last. Just like I know you loved me.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>So I’ll be a little longer getting home than I thought. But don’t worry. I’ll be along.</span>
    </em>
    <em>
      <span>
        <br/>
        <br/>
      </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Dean’s not sure how long he sits there, staring off into space with the letter still clutched in his white-knuckled grip, before the buzz of his phone brings him back to reality with a reminder that he’s still got a bus to Kearney to catch yet today.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Looking at the letter one more time, blinking to clear the tears burning at his eyes, he thinks about taking it with him. He quickly discards the idea, though, folding it back up before tucking it back into the box. Even if he’d like to keep his father’s words—the promise of how much he’d love him before Dean was even born—close, the letter isn’t for him. None of it is.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It’s a book he’s flipped opened to its last chapter, a picture he can only see the hazy memory of. He’ll never really know the rest of the story, every stop along the road that took them from their beginning to end, and that’s okay; it’s not his story, not his picture.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He sets the small trunk on the shelf that runs along the wall behind the bed, takes a few steps away before he stops. The keys jingle in his pocket as he reaches in to grab them, and he looks down at them with a smile. He’d planned to bring them with him, just as a comforting memory, but they seem more at home, here, resting on top of the lid of that box.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Glancing down at dad’s old watch—still a heavy and unfamiliar weight on his wrist—he taps it with three fingers of his other hand, reminds himself that daylight’s burning as he leaves and closes the door of room 11 behind him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>After all, he’s got his own long journey home ahead of him, yet.</span>
</p>
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